


Life is Good

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Sunny Saturday mornings – no one to answer to, and nothing pressing to do. Just them. Just him and her and whatever they want, however they want.





	Life is Good

**Life is Good**

* * *

The light pouring in through the open back door is warm and bright – cheerful early morning sun that is warm and summery, and full of promise for a long, happy day. The old wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet are pleasantly cool as she pads quietly up the stairs from the basement kitchen to the front door to retrieve the small pile of post there, all the while listening to the gentle sounds of the man standing happily at the work surface, humming away to himself as he prepares an indulgent weekend breakfast for the two of them.

Lying atop the pile by the door is a cheerful photograph of a luscious valley, green with plentiful vegetation and gleaming in the cloudless rays of a sun-filled sky blue day. As postcards go, thinks Grace, studying the scene, this one is rather beautiful. Somewhere in one of the former states of Yugoslavia, she surmises, noting that there’s no explanation on the front as to where the picture was taken.

“There’s a postcard,” she tells him, wandering back into the kitchen and taking the time to pause and admire the view as he moves between the stove and the sink. There’s plenty to see, for he is clad in only a pair of plain black trunks, and far too easily she finds herself getting lost in the hypnotic movement of muscle in his long limbs.

“Who from?”

“I don’t know – I didn’t read it.”

“Why not?”

It’s so like him. “Because it’s your post, not mine. I simply admired the picture.”

“Let me have a look, then.” He puts down his whisk, looks up at her. Takes in her sleep tousled hair and his dark grey shirt that’s her only cover, most of the buttons of which she didn’t bother to fasten when she slipped from bed to follow him downstairs. “God, woman, you look irresistible.”

Grace smiles, warm and soft, and drunk on love. Stepping closer she puts the post aside, slips into his arms. Melts into the embrace that binds her to him.

“The things you do to me, Grace…” he whispers into her ear, voice low and husky, “I’ve half a mind to carry you straight back upstairs to bed.” She grins, knows exactly how he feels. This thing between them… it’s blindingly powerful.

“Only half a mind?” she teases, though it’s very light-hearted and she kisses him then, slowly and sweetly, and with promises for later. They have a three day weekend ahead of them, and a pact to leave work far, far away for the duration. Tomorrow there will be lunch with his family, but that is all. The rest of the time is theirs, and theirs alone.

Quality time with each other; to eat and drink and laze around – to indulge in life’s pleasures.

Sex is one of those pleasures, definitely, but first they need food for time is ticking on and there have been too many accidently missed meals of late, as they have grappled with an increasingly complex investigation, and the temporary loss of both Kat and Eve to annual leave.

Boyd relaxes his arms, lets them fall away until his hands are resting on her hips. Grace shivers at the contact of his thumbs stroking her skin, even with the fabric between them, and then gasps as he flexes, employs a little of his strength and lifts her easily up onto the counter beside the stove.

Sheer mischief twinkling in his eyes, he reaches out and unfastens a single button on her borrowed shirt. “Much better,” he declares, admiring his handiwork.

She raises an eyebrow at him, notes that it was an upper button that he chose to release. Knows _exactly_ what it is he’s admiring. Tone arch, she asks, “Really?”

“Oh yes,” he answers, thoroughly unabashed.

Grace laughs, amused by his silliness, by how beautifully relaxed and happy he is away from the stress of their working lives. He’s washed and chopped the strawberries she bought yesterday, and she watches as he reaches out and snags a couple, as he offers one up, thumb brushing against her lips as he gently feeds it to her.

“Good?”

“Very,” she replies, licking her lips in the sweet aftermath, and she knows that _he_ knows she’s not just talking about the taste of the berry.

She holds out a hand, wanting another treat, and when he obliges she leans back just a little, just enough to make the seam of the borrowed shirt shift in a way that inevitably – and entirely predictably – catches and holds his attention once more. The cool, textured mass of the strawberry drops into her waiting palm, and as she moves to place it in her mouth Boyd lets his thumbnail drag across the length of her palm.

Grace shivers again, just as her lover surely knew she would, and then their eyes are ensnared in a gaze that instantly says everything about what is going to happen next. Watching her eat her prize, Boyd slowly, deliberately runs his palms up her calves, fingers splaying to tease the sensitive skin behind her knees before wandering further up, pushing the material of the shirt aside.

Breakfast, it seems, may have to wait.

She doesn’t expect him to go for the kill quite so quickly, but as she swallows and gently eases her legs apart he does, fingers slipping straight between her thighs without hesitation, quickly setting up a smooth rhythm that is incredibly arousing despite the slow, almost lazy approach he applies.

“Good?” he asks again, and this time she can only groan in acknowledgement, see him preen in response.

If that’s the way he wants to play it, thinks Grace, then so be it. Slowly, calculatingly, she unfastens the remaining buttons, waiting until the very last one before edging the seams apart bit by bit to let him look his fill, enjoying the frustration she sees in him as she takes her time, refuses to simply shed the cloth in one go.

Boyd growls, she smirks, and suddenly she’s off the work surface and in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, hands clutching at his shoulders and fingers digging into the muscle there as his mouth latches onto hers, tongue thrusting out roughly to meet its mate.

They’ve gone from teasing to impatient in an instant, and it’s all frantic need now as they drown in the duelling caress of lips and tongues. Desperate for air they part, and somehow Grace slips from his grasp, slithering down his body to stand on shaky legs, leaning much of her weight against him as he eagerly tugs the fabric from her body, leaving behind the bare skin he so obviously wants.

He’s hard and imperious against her stomach, and Grace reaches into his trunks, grasps hold of her own prize and begins to stroke him, grinning suggestively up at him as he hisses and thrusts into her hand.

“Patience,” she scolds him, even though she knows it’s a ludicrous thought. He has none when things between them are like this, and she is well aware of it. Can see it in the way he scoffs at the notion and strips away the single item of clothing he bothered with when they got out of bed. She’s faintly amused by it all, and then that fades away as he catches her in another heady kiss, arms curving around her as he takes charge and tugs her against him, using his height and weight advantage to start guiding her backwards across the room. She knows where he’s headed, and immediately appreciates the idea.

Lost within seconds, she loses track of their journey, instead concentrating on touching and being touched, kissing and being kissed. It’s an endless, erotic haze of feedback that drags her far, far away from reality.

The smooth fabric of the small, battered leather sofa at the far end of the long, rectangular kitchen is soft and comfortable against her bare legs and she backs up even further, dropping down onto it, half stumbling, half controlled subsidence in her already thoroughly entranced state. It’s cool, too.

His skin isn’t. Where his skin meets hers it burns with a heat that is very different from that of the rising sun. It burns with want and need; with the glorious warmth of love and passion and the exciting, exhilarating chance of a lust-filled Saturday morning’s urgent tumble right here and now in the kitchen in the middle of preparing breakfast and tea.

His hands are everywhere, and so are hers, squeezing and stroking, pushing towards that moment. There’s no time for tormenting, for teasing. This will not last long, Grace knows, and nor does she want it to. This is about heated blood and powerful desire, the strength of spiking, desperate lust. And right now, it is perfect.

Boyd’s eyes are blazing, and she revels in it as his weight presses against her, pining her tightly against the cushions as his knee pushes between her thighs, separating them, allowing him access again. She yields eagerly, pulls him closer. Groans in desperate, aching pleasure as he rubs against her, slides deep, deep inside her. It feels sublime, and she arches her hips under him, pressing her entire body to his as she meets him, matches his rhythm as he begins to move.

Boyd growls and picks up his pace, and Grace feels the breath hiss out from between her lips as she goes with him, urging him on. He reaches between them, deft fingers working away in exactly the right spot and she cries out, a sound that is stolen from the air as he kisses her again and again, his lips every bit as determined and thorough, his tongue pushing roughly into her mouth where it meets her own, tangling and retreating, and then tangling some more.

It’s so, so good, this passionate moment that sparked out of almost nothing. The strawberries forgotten, she gasps and moans, panting beneath him as they work their way together to that exquisite peak, the promise of intense pleasure looming closer and closer. The sensation of having him buried deep inside her is indescribable, utterly superb. Unafraid, and unashamed, she lets him see it, too. Lets him know exactly what it is she feels, what it is he’s doing to her. He likes it, and she knows it. She likes that he likes it, that her actions spur him on, that somehow what she shares with him encourages him to share the same with her.

Boyd leans back slightly, his hot breath against her neck replaced by his eyes staring down at her, deep and dark and filled with all the words he can’t formulate for her, and as he shifts his hips, changes the angle and level of friction between them, that’s it, all it takes. She’s crying out with pleasure, her nails clawing at his shoulders, scratching his skin and then he’s crashing forward into her, body tensing, head burying itself in her neck as he clutches her tightly to him while the waves of intense pleasure wash over and through them both, leaving them overwhelmed and incapable of coherent thought or coordinated movement.

Somehow he eventually rolls to the side, keeping her with him, their bodies a tangle of heat and limbs and heavy breathing as they refuse to relinquish their grip on one another, the sweet aftermath all the more enjoyable for it.

Neither moves again for a long time, both content to stay in the comfort of their embrace, the high of endorphins and hormones cancelling out the slickness and the stickiness of hot and sweaty bodies that are beginning to cool. None of that matters to Grace. She’s a long, long way lost in the kind of profound, all-encompassing love that most women would give almost anything for. Boyd is hers, and she is his, and that is all that matters to her right now in her hazy, half stupefied state.

* * *

It is the sound of children shouting in the street that eventually stirs them both. Boyd mumbles something unintelligible and lifts his head slightly, moves just enough to press a light and long lingering kiss to her temple.

Grace merely hums and burrows deeper into him, her head tucked into the cradle of his arms and chest.

“Your hair is tickling my nostrils,” he informs her, breaking through the spell she’s still so comfortably wrapped up in.

“Don’t care,” she mumbles, only just managing to muster the energy to form the words. “Comfy.”

“So am I,” is the quick response, “but unless you want me sneezing on your head…”

“Charming, Boyd,” she scolds, but makes no move to even so much as twitch a limb. The old sofa beneath them is big and soft, and his embrace is both secure and highly coveted. She really is very comfortable. Very comfortable, very sated, and very, very cosy. And she has no intention of letting this moment end before she absolutely has to.

“Grace…”

“Mm?”

“You’re very… ”

“Annoying?” she supplies, helpfully.

She feels him shake his head. “Gorgeous.”

That gets her attention, makes her break her self-imposed ban on movement. Stretching, she looks up at him, eyebrows lifting sceptically. “Peter…”

He presses a finger to her lips before she can say another word. “Hear me out,” he insists, fingers trailing along the length of her bare arm before drawing lazy patterns on her shoulder.

“Messy hair, flushed skin… it does a lot for me,” he admits. “A lot!” She smiles sweetly at him, about to chalk his words up to dopamine and oxytocin, but Boyd keeps talking. “How you look right at this moment – it’s very… unguarded… and that… means so much more to me than I can describe. I hope you know what I mean – it doesn’t sound right when I say it out loud, but… this side of you, that no one else sees… that you share it with me – it means everything. And I love it.”

He’s talkative when he’s thoroughly sated, that she observed from their first encounter together. Not in a sense that lends him to throw away words with abandon, but in a quieter, more sharing way. He’ll tell her things about himself, what he thinks, what he feels, hopes for. What he thinks about her.

It’s really rather wonderful.

In the aftermath of Linda and cancer and surgery and treatment, she needed it. When they somehow fell into each other’s lives in a far more intimate, permanent manner, she needed it. Even now, as time is passing, she’s getting stronger, and the horrific, terrifying memories are beginning to fade and lose some of their sharper edges, she still sometimes needs it.

The first time he cooked her dinner, and then sat talking and drinking good wine with her in the comfort of his big sofa after taking her to the appointment where they both listened to the final, long-awaited all-clear, she felt the world begin to shift on its axis. The first time he took her upstairs to the impossibly deep comfort of his bed and made love to her, she knew. And when, lying entangled as they are now, thoroughly sated and deliriously happy, he started, for the first time, to confess the tangled mess of his thoughts and feelings and the true depth of his fear for her, she rolled over, kissed him with breath-taking tenderness, and told him that she was deeply, irrevocably in love with him. 

Life hasn’t been the same since, for either of them.

This connection, this bond between them, whatever it may be, is incredibly deep. Powerful. Has been forged over years, and has battled through the adversity of time, circumstance, fear, anger and horrors of the near unimaginable. It goes far beyond the boundaries of tradition and normality and societal expectation, but that doesn’t matter, because it suits them, and it fits them.

“Thank you,” she whispers. She kisses him again, a slow, sweet acknowledgement and an expression of her gratitude all wrapped up together, and then settles against him once more, her head resting quite naturally on his chest where she can feel the slow rise and fall beneath her cheek as he breathes, hear the steady beat of his heart.

It’s a perfect moment.

The sun has moved, is streaming directly in from the garden now and it’s wonderfully warm where it caresses her. As is Boyd’s skin beneath and around her, and before she knows it, Grace is dozing again and so is he.

How long it lasts, she has no idea, but the hazy half-world she finds herself drifting in is a very pleasant place to be, filled with dreams and fantasies that border on her reality, and for long minutes she lingers there, enjoying every moment of it.

The strong arms that are holding her so securely are part of it, she’s sure. A reminder that, even as far along the journey of life as she is, it’s still possible to find love and acceptance. To be swept up in the kind of caring, reassuring, stability that she’s fought against, but still craved for much of her adult life.

* * *

Grace eventually opens her eyes to the mild irritation of a fly buzzing near her nose. Reaches out and swats at it, hand lazy and ineffectual with the heaviness of slumber still holding on to her. It’s fading though, and she feels rested, relaxed. Happy. Wonders if perhaps they’ve been napping far longer than she’s assumed.

Beneath her Boyd stirs once more, and she can’t help noticing that all of him is stirring. Can’t resist the temptation to join in, to help him along. Reaching down she wraps slender fingers around him, deftly encouraging the growing hardness she finds there.

“Grace…” It’s a low groan, layered with hope and want and hesitation.

She leans forward, bracing herself with her other arm, and whispers in his ear a far from innocent, “Yes?”

“Don’t tease,” he moans, twisting his neck to gaze at her.

She smirks back at him. Where the spark of mischief has come from, she has no idea, but the dull embers of the fire are flickering now, threatening to burst back into fierce flames, and Grace has no intention of damping them down. None at all. “Who said anything about teasing?” she asks, her tone deliberately dropping lower, huskier.

His eyes widen, irises golden and hazel in the bright, cheerful light, and she kisses him then, slowly, deeply and thoroughly, and all the while she maintains the unhurried, lazy assault on his hardening cock.

“What are you trying to do to me, woman?” he gasps, when they pull apart to breathe.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she queries, still incredibly calm. Grace finds his eyes again, holds them with her own. Very deliberately enunciates carefully as she tells him, “I want you.”

The effect is… stunning.

Fire rears up and rushes through him, and she can see it. Can watch it threatening to consume him, consume both of them, but this time she doesn’t want it to. This time she wants the moment to last, to be exquisitely drawn out.

Kissing him again, she uses it as a tactic to slow things down, to let him know that this is the pace she wants, to guide him along a much slower pathway to erotic bliss. Boyd responds to her with ease, and they fall into a languid dance of near lazy kisses that are deeply exploratory and drawn out, but no less heated for it.

His hand slips between them, and Grace feels dextrous fingers covetously grasp her breast, kneading joyfully as a wickedly skilful thumb works over her nipple, eliciting sensations that make her want to swear into his mouth as her tongue strokes over his.

Urging him to roll slightly, so they are lying side-by-side facing one another, she takes advantage of the freedom to touch more, to let her hands roam over more of his body, appreciating the ease of it all, and the wonderful feedback both of what she can feel herself, but also what she can see and hear in him. They are still pressed closely together, for the sofa is not that wide, but it’s more comfortable and there’s room to manoeuvre, to seek and find and tease.

The new position affords her the chance to watch him, to stare into him as she explores his hip and waist, as she reaches around behind him to trace the contours of his back, feeling ribs and muscle beneath her fingers as she goes, thoroughly caught up in everything she finds. Broad shoulders that fascinate her endlessly and are the perfect place to hang on to when she’s in need of something to steady herself; the insolent bulge of bicep in an arm that is strong and possessive, that can, and has, curved around her waist and pulled her to him, or lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom or the shower, or has pinned her up against the wall and held her there. It’s all a delicious, hedonistic mix of erotic memories, idle observations, and the freedom of love without boundaries or restriction.

He really is a breast man, she thinks, as he takes the opportunity to play without restraint. So much so that suddenly he’s moving again, sitting up and encouraging her to do so as well as he settles himself back against the cushions, feet planted on the floor as he helps her shift into his lap, facing him. Legs tucked underneath her, Grace grins at him as he reaches with both hands, enjoys the greedy look on his face as he works her flesh, thoroughly lost in what he’s doing.

There’s an arm around her waist, tugging insistently until she flexes her hips, lifts up on her knees and then her near instant reward is his lips closing in on her nipple as his hand drops lower, massaging her bare backside before sliding between her thighs and beginning its own dedicated assault.

Grace cries out, she knows she does. Hears the sound echoing in the quiet stillness of the basement room. There’s an answering growl from the man holding her, and a doubling of his efforts as his fingers slip inside her and his thumb continues to work away in perfect harmony. It’s utterly sublime, and her head falls back as she clings to those very shoulders she was just fantasising about, feeling the heat of growing day flooding in through the open back door, tickling her bare skin.

Sunny Saturday mornings – no one to answer to, and nothing pressing to do. Just them. Just him and her and whatever they want, however they want. No one to disturb them, no work to get in the way, just the uninterrupted time to themselves.

Love and sex and relaxation.

After five days of relentless demands on their time and energy, it means everything.

Everything.

Gazing down at him, Grace gets lost in Boyd’s eyes as he watches her getting closer and closer to shattering under his touch, falls into yet another kiss that is erotic and endless and indescribably passionate. Lips and teeth and tongues, hands that roam and squeeze and stroke – it’s all too much and she has to pull back, has to beg him, “Stop.”

He grins at her, all young boy and mischief and irresistible wickedness as he shakes his head and tells her, “No.”

“Peter, I can’t…” the words fail her as she shudders under his touch, moaning as he flicks his tongue across her breast, her nipple. He shifts then, uses his strength to lift her as he twists until he’s half lying, half sitting against the arm of the sofa, setting her back down again in his lap. This is it, this is the moment, she thinks, and Grace reaches down, grasps his cock in her hand once more. Takes a handful of seconds to work him slowly, to watch the expression on his face as she does. It’s a wicked pleasure all on its own, but it’s not what she wants, so she lifts herself, positions them both, and then slowly, gradually eases down, drawing out every single moment of the exquisite nature of it, of being steadily, insistently filled by the man she’s so hopelessly in love with.

She keeps her eyes on him as she moves, as they meld together, because that’s half the prize – revelling in the shared ecstasy of it all. Fully locked together, she stops, feels his hands on her waist drift upwards, one curving around her cheek and the other burying itself in her hair as he leans forward to kiss her again, his lips a silent promise of all the things he feels, all the things they share.

Breathless and heady with the moment, Grace waits for him to pull back, begins to slowly rock her hips. The movement may be small, but the overwhelming intensity it generates isn’t, and if the gasping groan that escapes Boyd’s lips is any indication then it feels exactly the same for him.

“Mmmm,” she mutters, the words that were on her lips emerging as an unintelligible mumble instead. Boyd just grins at her and takes her breast in one palm again, clearly still intent on playing, on teasing, even as he falls back against the arm again, creating a little distance between them, his other hand settling on her waist again to help balance her. She keeps a steady pace, unwilling to speed up and let this end before it has to. Instead she reaches for him, running her hands over his chest, letting her nails play over his skin, watching the hypnotic flex of muscle in his arms as he touches her.

His patience doesn’t last that long though, and he bites his lip, fingers digging into her hip a little as he impatiently pushes up against her. “Faster,” he urges, his desperation clawing at her.

At first she refuses, watches the way his eyes stare up at her, as close to begging as he’ll allow himself to get unless she _really_ pushes him. It’s enjoyable, but necessary too – helps her get closer to the peak, for she’s damned if she’s going to let this end without both of them finishing. It doesn’t take long, though, and then Grace shifts her hips, changes her position slightly and does as he asks, is instantly rewarded with the heady moan that escapes his lips and an altogether different sensation, one that’s still just as good, if not better, as he moves beneath her, creating a strong rhythm that hits all the right places and is so, so satisfying.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head falling back, the tendons in his neck standing out, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to form on his smooth, enticing skin. The sight of him is intoxicating and suddenly she’s desperate, can’t wait much longer. It’s good, incredibly good, but it’s not enough. She wants him closer, wants to feel all of him.

Grasping his biceps, she tugs. Digs her fingers into the thick muscle there and moans in pleasure. He’s so strong, and she likes it. A lot. Boyd sits upright, as she wanted, and then Grace can lean into him, press herself against his chest, feel the hitch in his breath as the contact sends signals straight to his groin. Hands in his hair, she kisses him again, and this time it’s far rougher, far more inflamed with the wild, desperate tension of need and desire.

He gives everything back to her just as insistently, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other across her back, clutching at her shoulder, dragging her back to him each time she moves. They are moments from the end, she knows. She can feel it building and building, can feel him shift his hips slightly under her, and then –

She screams. At least, she thinks she does. Isn’t really sure, not with the intensity of the pleasure rolling through her, not when his hands are still clutching at her, tightly, possessively. Not when he’s shouting her name into the still and silent kitchen. Deaf and blind to everything but what she can feel, Grace doesn’t realise he’s crashing backwards, and taking her with him. All she knows is that she’s still wrapped up in his embrace and she’s riding that incredible wave of release.

The world settles a little, but aside from straightening her legs a bit to relieve the pressure on her knees, Grace does nothing more than close her eyes and listen to the tangled sound of her and her lover’s heavy, erratic breathing. He’s completely immobile beneath her, but that’s just fine, for she has no plans to go anywhere, or so much as twitch a muscle, any time soon. He’s warm, he’s comfortable, and she’s very, very happy.

Life really couldn’t get any better.

* * *

The batter is mixed for their long overdue crepes, the fruit is chopped, and the tea is brewing, so Grace returns to studying the picture on the postcard as Boyd pours milk into their favourite weekend mugs.

“Who sent it?” he asks, and Grace automatically holds the card out to him, unwilling to read his private post.

Boyd looks up, lifts an eyebrow. “For heaven’s sake, Grace! We share a bed, and a whole lot more – I think you can read the back of a postcard.”

“I would never presume,” she replies, but she turns the small piece of card over anyway and is met by familiar, untidy scrawl. “Eve,” she says, automatically, before her eyes even scan to the name printed at the bottom of the mess of letters and words.

“War graves,” he tuts. “What a way to spend your annual leave.”

“You can’t fault her dedication,” murmurs Grace.

“Or her curiosity,” retorts Boyd.

“True,” remarks Grace, “but her charity is highly commendable.”

“Without a doubt,” he agrees. “I’m just not sure spending her holiday with death is a good thing for her when her working life revolves around so many corpses and cadavers.”

“You worry about her.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Hazel eyes flicker her way as he lifts the teapot and pours. “Of course I bloody do. She’s one of us, and after Stefan…”

“That’s very –”

“Don’t say it,” he interrupts.

She grins wickedly, “What, you mean kin–” He cuts her off with a swipe across her backside from the tea towel. Grace yelps and dances out of the way as he takes aim a second time. Looking around for ammunition, she finds nothing and scowls at him as he sniggers. “You’re such a child,” she sniffs, though there is nothing real about the irritation injected into her tone and he knows it.

He merely grins at her. “Whatever you say, Grace, whatever you say.” Nodding at the postcard still in her grip, he asks, “What has she got to say then?”

Shaking her head at his antics, Grace looks down and squints, realising her glasses are upstairs beside the bed.

“‘Dear Grace and Boyd. There are plenty of bodies to keep me busy, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I’ve been enjoying the scenery as well – lots of hiking and running through woodland and sleepy villages. The weather has been kind so far, though a big storm is forecast later in the week so I’ll be spending my last few days in Sarajevo with an old friend. Hope you are both well, Eve.’”

Finishing, she stares at the message, heart in her throat. Boyd spots her expression, sees that she’s somewhere between horror, panic and confusion. “What’s the matter?” he asks, putting the milk back in the fridge and turning to give her his full attention.

For a moment she can say nothing, has to focus on reining in her rising panic that their secret, which they have guarded so well and kept so carefully, is well and truly uncovered.

“Talk to me…”

This… _them_ … it’s no one’s business but their own. Has been hidden away from the rest of the world since day one because of who they are and what they do. Boyd has far more to lose than she does, if their relationship were to ever go public, and Grace has always accepted that. Has fiercely guarded their private life together as just that, entirely and wholly _private_ , by mutual agreement. They both know the dangers it poses to him, to his career. Hers too, though not as drastic. They accepted that risk right from the very beginning.

But this…

Suddenly finding out that all the covert shuffling between work and one another’s homes, all the effort to appear at work at different times each morning, to leave nothing and no trace behind them… They’ve worked so hard at it, and she’s felt so safe, so secure for months, but now she feels as though the firm, level ground beneath her feet has suddenly been yanked out from under her.

“What’s the matter?”

She needs to answer him, can hear the edge of impatience beginning to build.

“‘ _Dear Grace and Boyd,’”_ she quotes. _“‘Hope you are both well.’”_

“And?” he asks, clearly oblivious.

“Peter, she _knows_ about us. She sent a postcard addressed to _both_ of us. To _your_ house.”

“And?” he repeats.

“This… us… it’s not a secret anymore.”

To her astonishment, Boyd simply shrugs. “Eve’s known for a while, I’m sure of it.”

He’s so calm, that’s what’s startling. So calm, and apparently unbothered by the whole thing. It helps steady her, just a little.

“Peter…” She’s lost for words, truly. Scared and angry and upset by the dozens of thoughts that are bombarding her, questions as to what they’ve done wrong, what they’ve missed, who else might know, or may have guessed.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, firmly. Honestly. “No one else knows. It’s fine.”

She breathes, tries to focus. Concentrates. Eventually steadies herself a little.

“You’re not at all worried?” she finally asks, curious.

“Nope,” is the carefree reply as he hands her a mug. He really doesn’t seem to be, either.

She is. “Why not?”

Boyd pauses what he’s doing and turns to look at her, leaning his hip against the counter as he does so and crossing his arms over his bare chest. “It’s _Eve_ , Grace. Eve! She’s not going to tell a soul. She’s your friend, and she adores you. She’s happy for you – for both of us.”

Grace stares at him, thoughtfulness really beginning to replace panic now. “How are you so sure about all this?”

“She told me so, when you were ill.”

“We weren’t together then.”

She’s confused, certainly, and as she watches him, Boyd rubs his chin, the whiskers of his beard rasping against his fingers. “I was terrified for you,” he finally admits. It’s not exactly an answer, but it seems important to him as he speaks, slowly and reflectively. “And so was she. We… talked. Helped each other, I suppose you could say.”

This is news, but somehow it doesn’t surprise her. Eve and Boyd have a lot more in common than they probably realise, she thinks. In a situation like that it wouldn’t take much for them to gravitate towards each other. Still, she doesn’t know what to say. “That’s…”

Boyd shakes his head at her, offers a half smile, and she knows. He doesn’t need her to say anything – he understands. “One day,” he continues, and she leans back against the worktop to hear his story. “One day she came to my office. It was late – you’d just gone home. It was while you were still on heavily restricted hours – right at the end of your treatment – and I’d had to chase you away from your desk.”

She smirks at a handful of such memories that his words call forth. Can’t help herself, and he stares, gaze impenetrable with the weight of his thoughts.

“I was so afraid for you,” he tells her, repeating his sentiment. “So worried you would wear yourself out, that you would do yourself more harm than good because you were so eager to do something, anything, that got you out of the house and away from the cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, biting her lip as amusement vanishes and guilt flares at the thought of having caused him even more stress.

Boyd shakes his head again, continues, “Eve saw it, and then she came to talk to me. Told me I was an idiot.”

“An idiot,” Grace echoes, unsure where he’s going.

He nods. “Yes. She said I was putting off the inevitable, and while I kept doing it, I was just punishing both of us unnecessarily.”

“I don’t understand.” She doesn’t, not really. Isn’t clear about what he means.

“I said the same, and she rolled her eyes and muttered something about men all being as dense as each other.”

Grace can picture it, easily. Right down to the exasperated look on Eve’s face. Her friend can be incredibly blunt, when she wants to be. Wondering where the story goes, she sips her tea and asks, “What happened next?”

“She told me it was the saddest thing in the world to watch two people pining for each other and refusing to deal with their feelings. And then she pointed out that we had just watched you walk through hell and that somehow you were managing to crawl out the other side – how many more chances did I think I was going to get? How much longer were you going to last under the strain of it all without someone to lean on, someone to ask for help now and then?”

“What happened then?”

“She went back to her lab, and left me alone with my thoughts. The next evening I took you out to dinner.”

Grace remembers it. Can picture now the gentle, easy company he was as they shared a meal in her favourite little Italian restaurant. In the weeks that followed they shared more meals – in restaurants and little cafes, enjoying the hours of escapism from the stress of reality. At weekends he visited her, helped with chores that tired her out, worked through the crossword with her, took her shopping and for walks in the park, insisting that fresh air was good for her.

“That was seven weeks to the day before we went to my last appointment together,” she recalls.

“I remember,” he nods. “I planned that evening’s meal for ages – it felt like eternity waiting for it to happen.”

She studies him, reflects on how lucky she is, wonders something. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been given good news?”

“I don’t know,” Boyd replies, and the depth of honesty in his tone touches her deeply. “I thought about it a lot before that appointment, and afterwards, but I still don’t know now.” He reaches for her, holds his hands out to her, and when Grace takes them she finds herself being carefully pulled into a quiet, very loving embrace. He winds an arm around her waist, the other across her back so he can bury his fingers in her hair, and holds her close against his chest, cheek resting against the top of her head.

“I can’t imagine not having this,” she tells him quietly. “I don’t think I could have survived without you in those last few weeks. I was so worn out by then, and all the things you did to help me, to cheer me up – it meant the world.”

“We don’t need to go back over it,” he murmurs, and she knows he’s not brushing her off, only that he still struggles with it all as much as she does, and that sometimes rehashing everything is not the answer, that it does not help them move forward.

Grace kisses his arm, where it curves across in front of her face, still holding her securely. “So we have Eve to thank for this, us, then,” she muses, deliberately changing the track of the conversation.

“We do,” he replies easily. “I’ve never confirmed it to her, but she knows. She hasn’t stopped giving me smug smirks when no one else is looking.”

Grace laughs, and it’s free and easy and wonderful. It really is okay, just as he told her – just as he promised her all those months ago when she desperately needed someone to hold her hand and tell her that it would be.

Boyd pulls back, gazes down at her with a smile on his face that reaches into every part of his body.

“What?” she queries.

He shakes his head lightly, leans down to bestow a tender brush of his lips across hers. “Your laughter,” he explains. “There was a time when I thought I’d never see you smile again, never hear you laugh…” he trails off, leaves the sentence as it is.

Grace understands.

They’ve learned, both of them, when to leave some topics alone. When to let go and move on. “Are we having these crepes or not? It’s gone lunchtime now and I’m starving,” she teases, and gets a flashing, boyish grin in return.   

“We most certainly are. Outside,” he questions, “or in here?”

Grace makes a show of looking at his trunks and her barely buttoned shirt. “What would the neighbours think?” she gasps, feigning shock. “They’d be scandalised!”

Boyd just laughs. “In here it is, then.”

Grace shakes her head, amused, as she gathers various items from around the kitchen and starts to lay the small square table. On a whim, and due to the high levels of dopamine currently swimming around inside her brain, she’s sure, she lays the two places next to each other instead of across the table from one another as is their norm.

It’s certainly an indulgence, their meal, but it is good, and it is exactly the kind of peaceful pleasure they both need and want.

“I love it when summer berries come into season,” she sighs happily, enjoying the mixture they have.

“Same,” he mumbles around a mouthful.

She smiles at him, and then looks at the table, eyes searching. “Where’s the cream?” she asks, more to herself than him.

“Forgot it,” he nods, pointing across the room. “I’ll get it.” Before she can rise, he’s on his feet and striding across to the counter, gait long and smooth. He returns, one hand landing softly on her shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly as he leans down to briefly nuzzle her temple, sharing a quick, one-armed hug with her as he does. It’s a tiny moment, but one that makes her heart light up. Little things, tiny domestic happenings – they are everything to her.

Sharing her life with him, the good parts and the bad is… wonderful. Everything she ever allowed herself to daydream about, and more.

“Happy?” she asks, as he tucks back into his meal with a zest she recognises so well. He looks up, studies her with an intensity she’s slowly grown accustomed to. He knows she’s not just asking about their meal, about right now.

Leaning back in his chair, he surveys her, tilts his head and props it on his hand. “I wouldn’t change anything. I love you, I’m happy, and it’s a three day weekend. Life is… good.”

Though her heart appreciates his honesty, adores his response, she offers him a mischievous grin and asks, “Nothing?”

He plays the game, gives his reply consideration and thought. Says, “Well, if we were going for truly perfect, I could do without that bitch Maureen Smith lurking about at the yard and waiting to try and hang me out to dry by the balls, but…”

She bats back, offers, “Well, we could all do without her, but we’re not talking about work until Tuesday, remember?”

Her lover nods, and Grace knows he’s aware of her implication. Her offer for him to share anything that might be bothering him. To tell her if he has remaining fears or concerns about her. About them.

To voice any change of heart about what they are doing, where they are going.

Boyd smiles at her, gentle and kind as he reaches out to delicately tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Life is good,” he repeats.

And it is.


End file.
